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The first food we brought into bed was a sheet cake, a grocery-store birthday cake with piped icing so sweet I could feel it rotting my teeth. The sex started normally enough: We made out and enjoyed some foreplay, while the cake waited on the nightstand, as if silently asking us, Are you ready for me yet? Is it my turn?Then Steve took the cake and placed it on my bare chest. As he centered it, he began to get into his groove, grinding on me as he fed me handfuls of the cake, until I came.Afterward, I had a headache from the sugar rush, but also more energy for more sex.Over the course of a few weeks we incorporated all kinds of different foods into sex. One time he ate a sandwich while I fucked him. Another time, he fed me Dunkin Donuts Munchkins, which left a powdery residue on the sheets.By then, I noticed a pattern forming: There were crumbs all over the bed, and Steve insisted on crumbly food, like cake and donut holes, that left a huge mess behind. I was enjoying being fed, but I like being clean, and rolling around in crumbs was not my idea of a good time. But relationships are about compromises, and I've done worse for a good lay, so I carried on.Did you know that Munchies has an entire series devoted to Sex + Food?
On our last night together, Steve suggested he drip honey over my body. The very thought made me uncomfortable—honey is sticky—but I reminded myself of the principle of compromise and agreed.
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After that, I knew I had to end things."Listen, you're a great guy, but I don't think this is for me," I told Steve."It's not for everyone," he said.At the time I accepted this, because I wanted Steve out of my apartment so that I could begin furiously cleaning my apartment. But by the time I'd exterminated the ant colony, I realized it wasn't the food fetish that turned me off—it was the mess. I like things clean, and upon further research, it's clear that other people with a food fetish feel the same way.Sure, I gained some weight during our relationship, but I was surprisingly OK with that. In fact, the best thing to come from all this—despite the personal anguish and paranoia that came with the messiness—was realizing, maybe for the first time, that I like my body. It's pretty fucking great, curves and all. I just don't need a cake on my chest or honey in my asshole to prove it.Follow H. Alan Scott on Twitter.Read on Munchies: I Accidentally Fell Into the Feeder Fetish Community